Боюсь не успеть прочитать всю поэзию на свете


I walked with Maisie long years back
The streets of Camden Town,
I splendid in my suit of black,
And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face,
A secret heart, and eyes
Like water in a lonely place
Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat,
And broken chairs a few,
Were all we had to grace our flat
In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath,
And crown her head with daisies,
And watch the streaming world beneath,
And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale
And empty stood our store,
She left the latchkey on its nail,
And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away
Lest both of us should drown:
Perhaps she feared to die, as they
Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights
Destroy the rose and lily,
And souls are lost among the lights
Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her? The river flows
So deep and wide and stilly,
And waits to catch the fallen rose
And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still
And breathes the evening air,
And often walk to Primrose Hill,
And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live,
For I will find her yet:
I have so little to forgive;
So much, I can't forget.

(c) James Elroy Flecker

Accurate. Too accurate. I can relate to almost every line.
It's like the story has to repeat every 50 or so years with all its pain and drama, blood and drunken shouts, hugs and kisses in the telephone booths at night and runs to the river and fights. And we, as many before us, have to suffer, have to break, have to drive each other insane, have to crash, have to die and repeat it again 50 years from now, for we have to inspire those young kids on the streets, we have to show them that there are things worth fighting for, we have to light them up